


Rip Current

by Calliatra



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Case Fic (ish), First Time, Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse of Children, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Troubled Waters, undercover in a gay bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-18 16:11:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9392825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliatra/pseuds/Calliatra
Summary: A rip current is a powerful, fast-moving channel of water flowing away from the shore and out into the ocean. Rip currents are particularly dangerous because they are difficult to spot, and often look like calm patches of water from the outside. Moving at speeds of up to 8 feet per second, they can suck adults off their feet and carry even the strongest swimmers out to sea in a matter of minutes. Rip currents are the ocean’s leading cause of death.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Dawnwind’s _Bridge over Troubled Water_ contest.

45 Minutes. They’d been waiting for 45 minutes.

For the first five, Starsky had been perfectly happy to chalk it up to bad traffic. For the next ten, he’d still been willing to do the same. After twenty minutes, he’d started pacing. At thirty, he’d had to stop. Not because of the glares Jacobson had been throwing at him, whatever he thought of his own influence, but because there were only so many times he could collide with Huggy’s new chef before the man himself came back here and made good on his threats to kick them out.

_”How is my fine establishment supposed to keep its sterling reputation with an army of feds marching around in my kitchen? And don’t think you can come telling the Bear no one will know. These cats have ‘FBI’ tattooed all over them, and it ain’t exactly in invisible ink.”_

Starsky couldn’t deny it. Everything about these two, from their identical pristine haircuts to their overly shiny shoes, screamed they were feds. He hated it.

Jacobson wasn’t happy, either. He hadn’t wanted to meet here, and he hadn’t wanted Starsky at the meet, wherever it was. Starsky had insisted, refused to back down, and then simply inserted himself without waiting for permission. He needed to know that Hutch was safe, needed to hear that from his partner himself, rather than third-hand from a fed with an agenda. Needed to be able to trust that someone would keep any interested third parties from getting too close.

Hunt never spoke unless spoken to – _“Guess this one’s the strong, silent type, huh?”_ Huggy had stage-whispered, to a glare from Hunt – but he always agreed with Jacobson anyway.

No one was happy. It was par for the course these days.

And Hutch was… not here.

It could mean anything. It could mean he’d lost track of time. It could mean he got stuck behind a five-car pile-up on Main. It could mean he was following an opportunity too valuable to let go. It could mean they’d find his dead body in a dumpster somewhere three days from now.

It could mean _anything_. Because Hutch was deep undercover, completely alone, on radio silence, and Starsky had no idea what was going on.

Starsky _hated_ it.

“You’re going to crush that thing into sand,” Jacobson observed airily.

 _I’m going to crush something else if your goddamn plan got Hutch into trouble._ He bit his tongue, and set the glass down on the nearest surface with an almost normal amount of force. Hunt gave him a warning look anyway, but that wasn’t exactly new.

It had been twelve days, and it was getting under Starsky’s skin.

They didn’t work like this. He and Hutch, they didn’t work apart. Not like this. He always knew where Hutch was, and what he was doing. This was like working blind.

_”We’ve got to do it,” Hutch had said, low, in the relative privacy of Dobey’s office, and of course he’d been right._

_”I don’t like their methods.” An understatement, that._

_”I don’t, either.”_

_”There’s a lot of ways this could go sideways real fast.”_

_”Yeah.”_

_“But this is Bossick.”_

_”Exactly.”_

_”And if we don’t do this…”_

_”It might not get done at all.”_

So they’d know what they were getting into, and they’d gone in anyway. As far as they could, anyway, and then… Only one undercover operative, because Joey Bossick was much too careful to even think about letting two new guys get near him at once. Hutch had drawn that straw, in whatever rigged system the Feds were using to decide these things.

And no contact between Hutch and anyone but Jacobson, because Jacobson was a control freak with a paranoid streak, and his boss and Dobey’s boss had gotten together and decided that was a good thing. Jacobson had command of their task force, and he used it. No wiretaps, no surveillance, no nothing that might tip Bossick off. No way for Hutch to tap out of things got bad. Just a few carefully pre-arranged meetings like this one, where it could mean anything if he didn’t show up.

If he didn’t show up within the next fifteen minutes—

The kitchen’s back door swung open, and rain-damp Hutch pushed his way in.

“Sorry,” he said, looking more at Starsky than the other two, “I couldn’t get away.”

Starsky nodded, and looked his partner over while he shrugged off his wet leather jacket. Hutch looked… like himself.

The feds had vetoed any disguises, accents, or far-removed backstories – too hard to keep up long term, especially around someone as suspicious as Bossick. Better to go with something close to the truth, and focus all their attention on shoring up the key lies. It made sense. That didn’t mean Starsky liked it.

Their over-the-top disguises had a purpose, and it wasn’t just that no one ever suspected anyone of hiding by standing out. Acting outrageous characters meant they had to keep acting, couldn’t let their guard down, had to keep that facade up.

It kept things from bleeding over. It was another safety net that had been taken away.

Hutch was wearing a rumpled, faded shirt with a button missing, and worn out corduroys fraying at the cuffs. He was shaved less carefully than usual, and his hair looked like he’d been running his fingers through it. He looked like himself on a bad day. He looked like a crooked ex-cop whose years on the take had finally caught up with him. It was a good cover. Starsky didn’t like it.

“What’s the news?” Jacobson asked.

Hutch took a deep breath. “I think I’ve got an in.”

Starsky felt his eyebrows shoot up. That was _fast_.

Getting ‘Ken Collins’ into Bossick’s organization had been one thing – not easy, but doable, with the right snitches spreading the right word in the right places, and notices of immediate termination and a dragging investigation backing up the stories at the right time. But that was entry level stuff. Work as a contractor on some side business. No direct contact with Bossick himself.

Jacobson slowly raised his eyebrows. “That was fast. What happened?”

“Bossick was impressed with the early warning I gave him for your little raid. Said he hadn’t had information that reliable from inside Metro for a while.”

So they’d been right, Bossick’s old police informant had been on the outs. Good. It gave ‘Collins’ someone to show up, and a chance to make himself indispensable.

“That’s a good first step, Hutchinson,” Jacobson said, in that superior way that grated on Starsky’s nerves, “but Bossick isn’t quick in letting new people in. You’re going to have to prove yourself more than once before he’ll trust you. It’s a long game.”

“I think I might be able to speed it up.”

Jacobson blinked, then gestured grandly for Hutch to continue.

“I think he’s interested in me.”

Starsky’s eyes snapped to Hutch’s. So did Jacobson’s and Hunt’s. Hutch gave Starsky a quick glance before turning back to Jacobson.

“Interested as in…” Jacobson trailed off with a meaningful raise of his eyebrows.

“As in he was eying me like a five-course dinner, and I don’t think it’s my outfit he was appreciating.”

Jacobson looked at Hunt. “What do you think?” The two of them had a way of acting like there was no one else around. Or at least no one else worthy of their attention.

Hunt considered it for a moment. “He _is_ known for never sampling the merchandise. Maybe this is why.”

 _Merchandise_. Girls young enough that they should still be playing with dolls. It made Starsky’s skin crawl.

“Maybe,” Jacobson agreed. “But would it be a way in? Or does he keep business and pleasure strictly separated?”

Hunt shrugged. “No way to know yet. But he needs someone inside the local force, either way he wouldn’t risk that.”

Jacobson nodded thoughtfully, and turned back to Hutch. “How were you thinking of playing it?”

“Slow,” Hutch said. “He likes to think of himself as a gentleman. I’ll let him know I’m not opposed, and then let him pursue me.”

“You think you can get him to trust you that way?”

“I think he’s the type who likes to seduce with power. What better way than to let me have a taste of his?”

Oh _fuck_ no.

“Excuse us a second,” Starsky interrupted. “I gotta talk to my partner.” He grabbed one of Hutch’s arms and dragged him across the kitchen and into a small storage cupboard. It was the best they could do right now.

It was pitch dark when he shut the door, and he had to fumble for the string that attached to the bare bulb dangling precariously from the ceiling.

“What the hell, Starsky?” Hutch sneezed. There was a thin film of old flour on all the shelves around them, and now a small cloud of it dancing in the bulb’s dim light. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What the hell do you think _you’re_ doing?” Starsky hissed. “Leading on Joey Bossick? Where do you think that’s going to land you, huh?”

“In his inner circle, hopefully.” Hutch arched an eyebrow. “That’s what we’re aiming for, isn’t it?”

“Don’t give me that. Bossick might like to think he’s a gentleman, but we both know he’s not. You don’t get on his good side by withholding something he wants.”

“I won’t be withholding, I’ll be offering and… negotiating. He likes a challenge.”

“Yeah. But only as long as he wins in the end. He never lets anyone get away with stiffing him on a deal. He’s had guys killed for less.”

“So this is playing with fire. It’s not like it’s our first time. And it’ll be worth it if it lets us make our move more quickly.”

“This isn’t playing with fire, this is dousing yourself with lighter fluid and takin’ a stroll through a volcano. Bossick always makes sure he gets what he’s owed. If he thinks he’s owed _you_ , he’s not going to setting for a handshake and a coy smile, partner.”

“It might not come to that. We might get what we need to bag him long before he runs out of patience.”

“Maybe. But what if we don’t?”

“Then I’ll deal with it.”

“You’ll deal with it?”

“Yes.”

“And how exactly are you going to deal with it?”

“How do you _think_ ,” Hutch growled.

“Just so we’re clear,” Starsky said, quietly, trying to keep his voice even, “the only way that ends even a little bit well is with you grabbing your ankles for Joey Bossick, and you’re fine with that?”

Hutch twisted his head, checking their cupboard for eavesdroppers, or an escape route. “Look,” he hissed, focusing back on Starsky, “it’s not something I’ve never done before, okay? I—”

The good was yanked open in a sudden swirl of flour that made them cough and squint against the bright kitchen lights.

“Olly, olly oxen free,” Jacobson said drily. “I’m glad you’re having fun, but we don’t actually have all the time in the world. So if we could get back to doing our jobs, please?”

He made a show of herding them back into the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t you just look like something the cat dragged through a fire ant nest.” Huggy set a beer down in front of Starsky, and glanced around in a way that wasn’t the slightest bit inconspicuous. The Pits was almost empty at this hour; the lunch crowd was long gone, and it was still to early for the evening regulars. Huggy lowered his voice anyway. “Did your top secret spy meeting not go the way you were expecting?”

Starsky took a gulp of beer and didn’t answer.

Huggy tensed. “Hey, man, Hutch is okay, right?”

“Yeah, he’s fine,” Starsky said. “For now.”

“But not for long, is that what you’re ominously implying?”

Starsky shrugged angrily. He’d had hours to think about it, and he still didn’t know what he was supposed to think. He just knew Hutch was taking a damn stupid risk.

“Are you thinking…,” Huggy peered around the bar again, “that the, er, _Big Bad Wolf_ is going to catch him? I thought his, uh, ‘riding hood’ was in tip-top shape?”

“It is. That part ain’t the problem.”

“So what is?”

“Let’s just say the real Little Red Riding Hood woulda never dreamed a’ doing what ours is planning with the ‘Wolf’.”

Huggy took a moment to take in his expression. ”…Except maybe in a knockoff version that gets sold in brown paper bags?” he asked, carefully.

Starsky took another gulp of beer.

“Damn,” Huggy whistled. “That’s a gutsy move.”

“It’s a stupid risk.” Starsky set his glass down hard. “All it’ll do is make him more vulnerable.”

“You don’t think the ‘Wolf’ will have a blind spot for someone getting, ah, _close_ to him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But that shouldn’t be the question! We’re cops, this isn’t how we work.”

”Excuse me?” Huggy raised both eyebrows dramatically. “Who’s this I hear talking? ‘Cause I could’a sworn I was just talking to an old friend. You really gonna try to tell me you don’t work like that when I had the dubious pleasure of seeing you work exactly like that at least a dozen times right here in my bar? How many times have you brought a girl in not because you liked her, but because she knew something? How many times did you take one of them home with you?”

“That’s different.”

Huggy gave him a dose measured silence. “Sure,” he said slowly. “If that’s the way you look at it.”

Starsky looked at him, and the knowledge settled in his gut. “You knew.”

“I know a lot of things, my man. The Hugster’s got a whole lotta knowledge stored up here. You gotta be more specific.”

Anger flared through Starsky. “You _knew_. That Hutch… that he’s…”

“More experienced than you?” Huggy offered with a smirk.

Starsky slammed a hand down on the counter hard enough to make it shake. “Dammit, Huggy, I’m not in the mood for games! My partner is undercover, unprotected, on his own, and taking moronic risks that I can’t even predict because it turns out after all these years I don’t actually know him at all. So just tell me, what else have you two been lying to me about?”

“Now you wait just one second.” Huggy pulled himself up to his full height and waved a finger in Starsky’s face. “I ain’t been lyin’ about nothin’, and neither has he. We just didn’t tell you.”

“Same difference.”

“No, it ain’t. What, you think we’ve been holin’ up here, plottin’ behind your back and laughin’ ‘bout all the things you don’t suspect?”

Starsky didn’t say anything.

“Jeez, man.” Huggy shook his head. “We talked, once or twice. That’s it. We talked a little. Because sometimes it’s nice to talk to someone who gets it, ya dig?”

“And I don’t get it, is that it?”

“You’re sure trying real hard not to.”

“Huggy, I swear—” Starsky growled, but Huggy cut him off.

“No, you listen to me. It’s his business, and he decided not to tell you, and man, I don’t know why that is. But if he’s thinking anything like what I’m thinking, it’s because you don’t want to know.”

Starsky stared at him. “What are you talkin’ about?

“Look at you, man. You ain’t exactly a poster boy for taking news well right know.”

“That’s different.”

“You keep sayin' that. But answer me this: Did you ever ask him? ‘Cause I bet you anything he wouldn’t have lied to you.”

“It’s not the sort of thing I should have to ask!”

“So it’s the sort of thing people should be telling other people just like that?”

Starsky opened his mouth, then thought better of it.

“There’s your answer, Starsky, my man. I suggest you think on it.”

 

* * *

 

Two weeks of nothing. It had been two weeks of no real news, no real work, and nothing but reports, reports, and more reports for him to read. And he couldn’t even do that in the squad room, no, he’d been sent to the dingy basement office set up for their task force, with no one but Jacobson and Hunt for company.

Two weeks of no news from Hutch. Or rather, of ’nothing to report yet.’ Which only meant that there was no news that Jacobson felt like sharing. Nothing he thought warranted including Starsky in his precious ‘controlled information flow.’

Good thing Starsky had his own sources. Well, source.

Hutch had sent the message via Huggy. Nothing compromising, just a time and a place. Starsky had had to look up directions. It was a bit of a drive, which gave him the chance to check for a tail. Not that he really expected one, but in the long run it paid to be a little paranoid around paranoid people. For now, he wasn’t being followed.

He parked his car in a large, half-empty parking lot behind an old industrial building whose conversion into modern offices hadn’t been successful. The Torino wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, but the parking lot was designed for anonymity. There was only minimal lighting, and the building blocked any view from the road.

Starsky found what he was looking for at the bottom of a concrete-walled staircase down to a basement-level entrance. A small, half-lit sign read _The Foundry_.

Loud, pounding music and the stale and sour smell of a seedy bar assaulted him the second he pushed open the heavy steel door. He slipped through quickly and let it fall shut behind him.

It was almost as dark inside as it was outside. Too dark to see anyone’s face clearly unless you got close. There were bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling at irregular intervals, giving off just enough light to find your way. The whole place was more of a hall than a room, clearly industrial in its proportions. There was space for machinery down here, or for long rows of storage supplying whatever was needed for the production upstairs. The ceiling was criss-crossed with pipes, and the floor was rough concrete.

A long bar stretched out along the long side of the hall, packed with patrons – all men – perched on stools or crowding in between them. Several bartenders were hurrying back and forth behind it.

The center of the hall served as the dance floor, and was lit with more colorful lights that didn’t make it any brighter, only more flickering. He couldn’t make out individual people, just shapes moving rhythmically to the beat of the distorted, unfamiliar music.

A few tables were scattered around the edges of the room, hardly any of them occupied. Behind them, on odd places along the uneven walls, he could see recesses of some kind, dark corners, and a what looked like doorways into side rooms. There were shifting shadows in a few of them whose movements didn’t make it hard to guess what they were up to.

This place was perfect _because_ it was disgusting, Starsky reminded himself. He still didn’t like it.

He pushed through the crowd towards the end of the bar furthest from the entrance, where there were a few free stools. He could feel eyes following him, in a way that made him itch for the comforting weight of his handgun. He couldn’t tell if the attention was because he looked out of place, or because he looked like he belonged. Either thought was uncomfortable.

Starsky sat down on a stool right by the wall, and swiveled around so he was facing the dance floor. So he had the bar and the wall at his back. Hutch wouldn’t be here for at least another half hour. He waved for a bartender and ordered a beer, wishing he could risk something stronger.

The place was as seedy as a bar could be without being outright mob-owned. He know the look of a place that asked no questions and had plans for police raids, and this was it. He knew without looking that there were shady deals going down in the back rooms, along with the filthy-but-legal things he’d already seen. Even at the bar, some of the men were swapping spit messily, and there was a lot more grinding and humping than actual dancing going on on the dance floor.

The two men closest to him on the dance floor were dancing less and less with every second, and moving on from groping to brutal rutting. The taller man’s hair flashed blond in the changing lights, and Starsky turned away from what he didn’t need to see.

Was that what Hutch and Bossick were getting up to right now, even while he was here, waiting? The thought was repulsive, and he tried to shake it off. It had to be too soon for that. But he couldn’t shake off the anger that Hutch had put himself in this situation at all, that he was risking his… everything like this. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t healthy.

Starsky took another gulp of beer, and resisted the urge to slam the glass down hard on the shabby wooden bar. He wasn’t uptight, and he’d enjoyed his share of the sexual revolution. But there was a difference between having some fun and having nothing else, and a scene organized around getting as many people as possible off as quickly as possible rubbed him the wrong way.

He’d known these kinds of places existed, of course, but it had never been his problem before. He’d accepted it, the way he accepted things that didn’t have anything to do with him. Now this did, and it was, and he hated it. Hated the sleaze and shamelessness of the place. Hated that he had to be here, had to pretend to be part of this. Had to watch Hutch really become part of it. He hated that Hutch was making him do that. He hated… He didn’t know how to deal with this stuff. He didn’t want to _have_ to deal with any of it. It wasn’t supposed to be something he thought about. It made his skin crawl.

From behind, someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Starsky whirled around, hand instinctively going for the piece he wasn’t carrying.

“A little jumpy there?” Hutch smirked.

“I don’t like this place.”

Half of him regretted the way Hutch’s face froze, then slid into neutral. The other half took an angry pleasure in the revenge.

“Well, then let’s get this over with quick.” Hutch dropped onto the seat next to Starsky and flagged down the bartender.

“So,” Starsky said, when Hutch had his beer, “what aren’t the feds telling me?”

“I don’t know. What _are_ they telling you?”

“That there’s nothing to report.”

“There isn’t.”

“Okay then. But what’s the story?”

Hutch took a slow drink. “I’m getting closer.”

“Yeah? How close?”

“Not close enough yet. But I’m on my way in, I can tell.”

“That the specifics you called me here to tell me?” It was unfair, and Starsky knew it. Even with no new information, it had been two weeks, and that was the most they were willing to take of Jacobson’s goddamn ‘controlled information flow.’ But none of this was fair, and Hutch could damn well do his part to not make it harder.

“Well, I’ve only sucked Bossick off three times so far, and I don’t think he likes that I won’t kiss him on the mouth, but I’m planning to let him fuck my ass next week, so that should put me over the top with him,” Hutch snapped. “Is that what you want to hear?”

Starsky growled and turned to leave.

Hutch’s hand shot out, catching his wrist. There was a hint of an apology in his eyes.

Starsky stayed.

“They’re preparing for something big,” Hutch said, staring at his glass. “I don’t know what it is, but he’s holding closed-door meetings all the time, getting his people together, and freezing out anyone he doesn’t completely trust. Including Birch.”

Starsky whistled. “That’s supposed to be his right-hand guy.”

“Not anymore, not in this. He’s looking for someone new. And he’s been very happy with the info I’ve been able to get him.”

“You think you have a shot?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Starsky took another gulp of beer.

“But?”

“Be careful.”

“Yeah.” Hutch looked away, off to the side, towards the men wrapped around each other there.

Starsky had the sudden urge to stay, to keep Hutch here, where he was safe and far away from Bossick and his men. He sighed. “I gotta go.”

“Right.”

Hutch would be staying for at least another hour. Firming up his cover for whichever of Bossick’s men was keeping an eye on his movements.

Starsky slid off his stool. “Keep me in the loop.”

Hutch nodded. “Keep watering my plants.”

 

* * *

 

Another file hit the ‘useless’ pile, and Starsky only barely resisted the urge to shove the whole thing off the desk. He wasn’t getting anywhere. Weeks and weeks of nothing but paperwork, nothing but reviewing old cases looking for links to Bossick, and coming up empty. And the few times he’d lucked onto something that looked promising, he hadn’t been allowed to follow up on it. No, Jacobson and Hunt did that part. _”Fresh eyes, and fresh faces,”_ Jacobson argued every time, right before or after he insisted Starsky was the best person to look through the newest box of case files R&I had turned up because as someone who knew the turf, he’d get more out of them.

It was a ploy to keep Starsky out of any of the real action, and Jacobson wasn’t even bothering to hide it. He had disdain for local cops written all over his smug face and fancy suit, and the only reason he didn’t exclude Starsky even from official briefings was the deal he had with Dobey. Jacobson’s precious ‘information flow’ only flowed in one direction: towards him. Any word he had to share with anyone but Hunt was a word too much, and any word she said to Starsky was a potential leak in the making.

So Starsky had no idea if any of his work was turning up anything at all. _“Too early to tell,”_ was all Jacobson would say, no matter what questions Starsky asked. It was enough to drive anyone crazy. Too bad he couldn’t afford to go crazy right now.

Starsky got up and poured himself another cup of coffee, then grabbed the next case file out of the box. A triple murder. Great. He rubbed his eyes and sighed, wondering if he could find another vice bust instead. At least then the crime scene photos wouldn’t be—

The door burst open, and Jacobson stalked in, followed by Hunt. Starsky dropped the file onto his desk. “How’s Hutch?” he asked, not even pretending to care about the rest.

“Doing fine,” Jacobson said. He positioned himself behind his desk. “Better than fine, maybe, if he’s right about how much Bossick is starting to trust his information. He could be getting in even faster than we thought.”

Starsky raised his eyebrows. Was Jacobson was actually going to tell him about Birch? “How?”

Jacobson smirked. “Look’s like your partner’s choir boy looks are working their charm.” He turned to Hunt. “Think Bossick’s really going to give it all up for a pair of baby blues?”

“If Hutchinson puts enough effort into it,” Hunt said, not looking up from his files.

Jacobson switched his attention back to Starsky. “Can he handle it, your partner? If Bossick turns up the heat? Or should we expect him to run like a virgin on her wedding night?”

Starsky resisted the urge to punch him in the nose. He was getting good at that. “Hutch won’t risk his cover, or the op. He knows what he’s doing.” That sounded too close to the truth for comfort. “Plus,” he grinned, baring his teeth, “you should see how good he is at stringing people along. Half the hookers on our beat think they have a chance with him, and the other half are on their way there. Bossick’ll be putty in his hands.”

Jacobson looked at Hunt, who shrugged. “It sounds like he’s making exceptions for Hutchinson already.”

“The question is, is that him or the horse?”

Hunt shrugged again.

“What do you mean, the horse?” Starsky demanded, alarm bells shrilling.

Jacobson looked at him a moment, considering. “We’ve had reports,” he said finally, “that Bossick’s gotten himself hooked. Fairly recently, so we don’t know how much it’s influencing him yet.”

“That’s why you’re making your move now,” Starsky deduced. “While he’s still at the top, but making mistakes, before one of his lieutenants replaces him.”

Goddammit, that was the last thing they needed. The last thing _Hutch_ needed.

Jacobson graced him with a half-nod of acknowledgement.

“And you _didn’t tell us?_ ” Starsky couldn’t believe it. This went beyond the feds’ normal refusal to share information, this was insane. If Bossick was getting paranoid, angry, and unpredictable… it would explain his shakeup with Birch, but it also put Hutch in that much more danger. It also put Hutch around a regular supply of heroin, which was its own problem….

“We couldn’t be sure,” Jacobson said, which would have been a lot more convincing if it wasn’t his standard excuse for all the things he left out of shared reports. “We still aren’t. Better to plan as if Bossick is still on top of things, and adjust as necessary.”

God, the ignorant arrogance of that man! As if he and Hutch would have thrown caution to the wind if they’d known Bossick was compromised, instead of doing their jobs and making extra contingency plans. But first things first. “You’ve got to tell Hutch.”

“I did tell him to keep an eye out for any drug use among Bossick and his people. He told me he hasn’t seen any so far.”

Starsky swallowed. Maybe they’d be lucky.

“Bossick’s not dumb,” Hunt put in. “If he’s using, he’s not going to advertise it. Hutchinson would need to get extremely close to see it.”

“Well,” Jacobson said cheerfully, “he’s working on it. With the information we’re feeding him, and the misinformation we’re spreading in the street, he’s going to start really showing up Bossick’s other men. Be the only dependable one, if we’re lucky.”

“Risky,” Hunt said. “He’ll make enemies.”

Jacobson shrugged. “That was going to happen either way, once he started getting close. As long as Bossick still has control over his men, they’re not going to risk hurting someone he values.”

Just how much value did Hutch’s life carry for them so far, Starsky wondered. And how much control did Bossick actually still have?

“What about the other angle?” Hunt asked.

“Hutchinson’s been working it. He’s been heading out to some sleazy queer bar every other night, working up a reputation. If Bossick’s really interested, and if he’s as possessive as they say he is, he should start making moves soon. We’ll have to wait and see. So, in the mean time” Jacobson added, with a pointed look at Starsky, “let’s get back to doing our part of the job.”

Starsky sat down and opened the triple murder file, without really seeing it.

 _Working up a reputation._ He wondered what the truth of the matter was. The cold – or hot – facts that Hutch’s wouldn’t share with Jacobson, or anyone else if it could be avoided. Just how close was he getting to Bossick? Had he made good on his angry promises yet? Starsky couldn’t imagine it. But then, he hadn’t ever imagined Hutch making it with any man, and he’d clearly been wrong about that.

How far did it go? How much experience did Hutch have with men? Was it just something he’d experimented with in college and then forgotten about? Or was it something that had been going on all along? Had he been meeting up with men in secret, going to places like The Foundry, having affairs and lying about everything? When Hutch excused himself early from nights at Huggy’s, talking about healthy sleep and early mornings, was he going off to meet some guy in a darkened room somewhere? Or was it even more than that? When he wasn’t dating anyone – when Starsky thought he wasn’t, and was keeping a casual but constant eye out for the right girl for him – was it possible he was actually secretly dating a man the whole time? Someone he didn’t introduce to Starsky, didn’t even mention, but went home to at night, trusted, loved? Was it possible that Hutch would leave him out of that big a part of his life?

He didn’t want to think so. But what he wanted didn’t seem to matter anymore.

For all he knew, Hutch had had a secret lover on and off for years.

And for all he knew, Hutch was with Bossick right now, playing the same game all over again with dangerously different stakes.

Starkey forced his attention back to the triple murder case file. At least the crime scene photos there weren’t nearly as bad as the pictures his imaginations was painting.

 

* * *

 

The Foundry was less packed than last time, and Starsky spotted Hutch’s blond hair in the far corner of the bar from a distance. But his relief didn’t last long. Hutch wasn’t alone.

A large, muscly hunk of a man was next to him, leaning about as far into Hutch’s space as he could without falling off his stool. Starsky didn’t need any personal experience to see the over-eager come-on that was. He moved faster, getting ready to intervene if he had to, to take a blow or dodge one if the turkey refused to take his rejection well…

But he didn’t get a rejection. Starsky couldn’t hear the conversation over the relentless beat of the music, but Hutch’s body language told him all he needed to know. That wasn’t a ‘get lost’ or even a ‘sorry, I’m taken,’ that was a ‘talk to me when I get off the clock.’ The man ambled away, and Starsky’s eyes stayed on Hutch, who still looked perfectly happy.

“Enjoying the perks of the job?” Starsky asked, coming up on Hutch from behind.

Hutch spun around, clearly taken aback.

Starsky knew he should leave it be, but he couldn’t help himself. “Bossick doesn’t mind you straying?” His eyes followed the bulky man, who had moved down the bar to his next target.

Hutch stiffened. Starsky could see the familiar anger rising. “ _Joe_ doesn’t care who or what I do in my free time. It’s a nice change.” His tone was icy. “What he does mind is his men getting secret messages telling them to sneak off and meet with cops,” he added. “Don’t do that again. It’s too dangerous.”

What was dangerous was going another three weeks without a single word from his partner. Without any idea what was going on.

“Because it’s so unusual for you to come here, huh? Not like you spend every free night in this dive.”

“You know that’s my cover,” Hutch growled, low enough for only Starsky to hear. “Don’t play dumb.”

“Yeah? And all the guys you take home, that for cover, too?”

He could see the moment the _Hutch_ bled out of Hutch, leaving behind only the shell of whoever he was playing, and he didn’t know which of them he was angrier at.

“Like you said,” Hutch, or ‘Collins,’ said airily, “perks of the job.” Arrogance dripped from every word, with superior smugness of scandalizing someone less enlightened.

“Drop the act.”

“It’s not an act, remember?” Hutch drawled. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? I’m just me. A cop with a couple of years and a couple of disappointments too many. Tired. Pissed off. Looking for something better than this crap.” There was real bitterness in the way he spat the last two words.

“If you were anyone else, you’d be starting to scare me right now.”

“Good.” Hutch took a long swig of his beer before dropping his shoulders and his defenses a little. Dropping the _Hutch_ back into himself. “What did you want? Why am I here?”

Starsky accepted the truce, and slid onto the stool next to him. “An update. It’s been three weeks.”

Hutch took another sip, slowly, facing the bar. “I’m in.”

 _In?_ Jacobson had said that things were looking good, Hutch was being trusted with mire into, but that was different from… “How far in?”

“ _In_ in. I don’t have a real position, not yet, but Joe— Bossick’s been running things by me. Letting me weigh in before he talks to the others. And he wants me to start sitting in on his private meetings.”

That wasn’t just _in_ , that was further in than they could have hoped. This was _big_. And this was the first he was hearing of it.

“You told Jacobson?”

Hutch shook his head. “Haven’t had a chance.”

Starsky gaped at him in disbelief. This was _huge_ , the key to everything they’d been working for, and Hutch hadn’t— “What the hell are you waiting for?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hutch snarled, “maybe some common decency? Maybe for you to stop treating me like some double-crossing snitch? Believe it or not, I do actually know what I’m doing, and if you want me to be able to do it, you need to _back the hell off_.”

Starsky stared, not wanting to trust his eyes. Hoping desperately that he was wrong. For the low light at the bar, Hutch’s pupils were much too small.

“Are you _using_?”

Hutch stared back for a speechless moment. Then he yanked up his left sleeve and thrust his arm in Starsky’s face. There were only the old, faded track marks that Forrest’s people had left, now pale enough that Starsky only saw them because he knew where to look. Nothing new had broken the skin in a while. But there were other, more discreet places to shoot up, and they both knew that.

Hutch pulled his sleeve back down with growl. “Is this where we’re at?” he spat.

“You tell me.” It was almost easy to be controlled now, when he had to.

“What is your problem?” Hutch hissed, furious, but trying to keep his voice down.

“I don’t think I’m the one who needs to be asking himself that.”

With a snarl, Hutch slid off his stool and grabbed him by the collar.

Starsky found himself shoved hard against the wall just a second before Hutch’s mouth slammed into his. He braced himself, but didn’t fight.

After a few seconds, Hutch pulled back, breathing heavy. “Is that it? Is that what you want from me?”

Starsky knocked Hutch’s hand off his collar and shoved him away, suddenly furious. “You think you can buy me with a back alley fuck? That what you think? Well, I got news for you: That shit don’t work with me. I ain’t your good buddy _Joe_.”

“No,” Hutch said, dripping with contempt, “you’re not.” He turned away. “Don’t send any more messages.”

And Hutch walked out without looking back.

 

* * *

 

Starsky drained the shot glass in one gulp, and slammed it down a lot harder than necessary. He wanted to get out of here. He wanted nothing more than to get out of here, but he couldn’t. His and Hutch’s entrances and exits still needed to be spaced out, no matter how angry he was. He signaled the bartender for another, and was soundly ignored.

A sturdily built woman two seats over gave him a sympathetic look, and flagged down the bartender for him. Starsky nodded his thanks.

She leaned over towards him before he could get back to moodily staring at nothing. “Hey. From one broken heart to another? If he doesn’t love you, there’s no point trying to force it.”

Starsky wondered if she’d seen the scene he and Hutch had made, or if that was just the obvious guess here.

“He loves me,” he said, because that at least he never doubted.

She raised her eyebrows. “Then why the sorrow-drowning sauce?”

He shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

“It always is.” She sipped her own drink, something colorful and fruity looking. “I’m good at keeping quiet, if you want to talk.”

“Thanks,” Starsky said, “but not really.”

The bartender set another shot glass down in front of him, and Starsky considered it. He looked at her, at her short, manly haircut and faded leather jacked. “You’re into women, right?”

She barked out a laugh, good-humored. “You must be new here.”

”I am, actually.”

“Ah.” She sobered. “That part of your problem?”

Starsky shrugged.

She nodded. “It’s not easy. The whole outside world feels like it’s out to get you, doesn’t it? And in a lot of ways it really is. And then in here… you feel the magic yet?” A look at Starsky apparently told her that he didn’t. “Guess you’re still in the scared phase, huh? Don’t worry, it’s normal. But when that wears off, watch out. It’s going to feel like you have a special bond with everyone here, because they don’t just understand, they share and keep your secret.”

Starsky couldn’t help scowling.

“Trust me,” she said, “sooner or later you’re going to feel it. That’s the magic of a place like this. Or part of it, anyway,” she added with a grin, as two men moved from her other side towards the dance floor, already locked tightly together.

“But it’s dangerous, too. Just like everywhere else, not everyone here is a good guy. And it’s hard to tell who is and who isn’t, when you’re new. Especially if you’re a little lost and alone. There’s people who take advantage of that. And if you end up in too deep with them… well, it’s like puppy love all over again, except while you’re a puppy, they’re a pit bull.” She caught his look, and grimaced. “Yeah, I got experience. But forget about that, it was a long time ago. What about you? Is that who he is for you?”

Starsky shook his head. “No. He… We’re both new here.”

“And now he’s met someone more experienced?” she guessed.

Starsky snorted. “You could say that.”

“Ah.” She tilted her glass back.

“What, no sage advice?” he joked.

She shrugged. “It won’t end well. But nothing ever does.”

Ouch. “That why you’re…?” He motioned to her almost empty drink.

“More or less.” She finished it off.

Starsky smiled. He could relate to that. “Can I buy you another one?”

She looked tempted for a moment, but then shook her head. “Some other time,” she said. “Maybe sometime when we’ve got something to drink to, instead of something to drink to forget, huh? Anyway, I’ve got to be responsible tonight.” She pulled a few bills out and slapped them on the bar, then hopped off her stool. “For what it’s worth, I hope you have better luck than me.”

 

* * *

 

He was really starting to hate this basement prison. Case files, nothing but old case files, too many of them unsolved, and not a single one Starsky had reviewed over the past week had been the tiniest bit useful. This one was another murder, a young girl dead with no good explanation. There was too much of that.

But at least Jacobson and Hunt were out. Hunt’s silent intensity was reasonable enough to work around, but Jacobson had been keeping up an almost constant stream of comments directed at Hunt that had Starsky gritting his teeth harder than his dentist would approve of. This silence was much more workable, and would almost have been nice, except for the loudly ticking clock in the corner.

Starsky was just starting on the witness statements when the phone on Jacobson’s desk rang. He dropped the file and answered it.

“Corben here. I need to speak to Jacobson.”

No one could say the man wasn’t straightforward. They could say a lot of other things, but not that. Corben was Jacobson’s boss, the man coordinating the FBI on this case.

“Sorry, he’s out right now.”

“Well, then tell him to call me as soon as he gets back in. And let him know I’m letting him have the thirty men he wanted. They’ll be briefed by tomorrow. Thank you.”

There was a click, and Corben was gone. Starsky stared at the phone. _Thirty men?_ It could only be for their final bust. The latest information he’d gotten from Jacobson was that Bossick was negotiating a huge buy from a rival organization, but that the details were still unclear. That could be the perfect opportunity, if it got the key players on the scene, or it could be just another net full of middlemen while the really big fish were undisturbed in another pond.

But if the FBI were getting their guys ready now…

The door opened and Jacobson strode in, followed by Hunt. He gave Starsky a slightly raised eyebrow.

Starsky slammed the receiver down. “Were you ever going to let me in on this?” he growled.

Jacobson glanced at the phone, and didn’t bother pretending he didn’t understand. “Yes, of course. As soon as it was all set.”

So at the very last minute, with no chance to get in on the planning, and no chance to prepare. Or… prepare someone else. Oh, of all the incredibly, absurdly paranoid— “You think I’m a _mole_.” This was too much, even for Jacobson.

“Not a mole, but a liability,” Jacobson said, with an honesty that surprised Starsky. “In an op as large and as delicate as this, everything depends on having control of the information flow. There can’t be even the smallest leak. And that’s not something you’re good at.”

What on _earth_? “Who the hell do you think I’m going to leak this kinda information to?”

Jacobson gazed at him steadily. “Your partner.”

Starsky gaped, not believing his ears. “You’re not telling _Hutch_?” he forced out, and saw on Hunt’s face that it was true. “He’s _risking his life_!”

“Yes,” Jacobson agreed. “And the more information he has about our plans, the bigger the risk to and from him.”

 _From_ him. They thought _Hutch_ was a mole? No, they wouldn’t be working from his information if they did. They thought Hutch was unreliable. A potential leak. Was it a guess? A hunch? Or did they know something? No, they couldn’t, it had to be Jacobson’s paranoia.

“You really don’t get how this works,” he growled, frustrated. Hutch, undercover, was improvising a performance every second of the day. The more information he had, the more realistic, believable his performance. And the higher his chances of staying alive.

“No,” Jacobson snapped, “ _you_ don’t get how ops on this scale work. Bossick is on high alert. And he’s _good_. He’s evaded raids and busts before, and he’s _always_ looked for traitors in his ranks. Even a small, even an unconscious change in behavior from one of his men could tip him off.” He looked Starsky right in the eye. “Are you willing to bet Hutchinson’s life on his ability to not blink?”

Starsky didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The grisly truth was that making it with a mark had a way of warping your thoughts in ways you didn’t even realize until it was too late.

Jacobson didn’t rub it in. “No leaks,” he repeated. “This is top secret. You won’t tell _anyone_ , including Hutchinson. Understood?”

“Yeah,” Starsky said, “I got it.” He looked at the pair of them, in their suits. “You’d better be right about this.”

“We are,” said Hunt.

 

* * *

 

He hated how relieved he was. Seeing his partner’s tall, blond frame slip through The Foundry’s heavy door had made him breathe easier, and he hated what that said about where they stood. But this was good, Hutch was here. He was very steadily making his way across the packed room, no sign of… anything.

Starsky slipped off his stool when Hutch reached him, and motioned him to follow. The bar was too crowded tonight, too full of potential eavesdroppers and snitches in the making. Instead, he chose one of the dark, recessed corners on the other side of the dance floor. It offered some privacy, with walls at their backs, and the writhing, shifting mass of dancers to keep anyone from getting too close for too long.

They had to stand close. Starsky glanced at Hutch’s eyes, but it was too dark to see any details.

Hutch scowled. “Why am I here?”

“They’re planning a bust,” Starsky said, not beating around the bush. “On Bossick’s deal with Barcelli’s gang. The feds want to take out both at once.”

Hutch blanched. “That’s three days from now! That’s too soon! I won’t be able to get enough details, never mind finding something to use in court—“

“Get whatever you can,” Starsky said. “Jacobson’s sure his FBI guys can handle the rest.”

“Even if— it’s not safe! Bossick says he won’t do the deal unless he can see what he’s paying for, and it’s looking like he’s going to get his way. He’s going to make Barcelli bring the girls to the warehouse. They’ll get caught in the crossfire!”

Starsky nodded. “I know. The feds decided it’s a calculated risk.”

“The lives of young girls are a _calculated risk_ now?” Hutch wasn’t quite hissing, but he was close.

“You know it’s not any safer if they get stashed somewhere with a flunky who’s got orders to get rid of the evidence if the deal goes south. Or if they can be used as a bargaining chip against us.”

Hutch shook his head. “This is a really bad idea. It’s the biggest deal Bossick’s had for a long time. He’s taking security very seriously.”

“That’s why we’ve gotta take this chance. It’s too big to miss.”

Hutch shook his head. “There’s too many unknowns. And too many people with too many guns. This isn’t going to end well. You’ve got to call it off.”

Starsky narrowed his eyes. “Do you know something?”

Hutch jerked back, as much as the narrow space allowed. “Am I keeping vital information from you, you mean?” he snapped. “No, I’m not. But everything about this is too much of a risk. We just don’t have enough information. And… look, Bossick’s been worried lately. Like he knows something’s up, and he’s preparing for trouble.”

It made the hair on the back of Starsky’s neck stand up. He’d heard that line too many times before, from too many double-crossing snitches trying to cover their asses. _”I think he already knows. So don’t go pinning it on me if it turns out he did have the info.”_

There was no way Hutch would… but there had been a lot of things he’d thought Hutch would never do.

“It’s happening,” he said, harsh and not caring. “It’s not going to change. Jacobson’s bringing in thirty men.”

“ _Thirty?_ ” Hutch’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “How long has this been planned?”

“I found out yesterday,” Starsky said. “Jacobson’s been working on it longer.”

“And he’s, what, waiting for the right moment to surprise me with the news?” Hutch snarled.

“He’s not going to tell you at all.”

“What?” Hutch stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“He’s worried you’re going to give it away,” Starsky said, wondering if that was the right move.

“He’s completely crazy!”

“Is he?” Starsky asked quietly. “I’m not so sure.”

“What the hell is this?” Hutch’s voice was rising in a mix of disbelief and anger. “Whose side are you on?”

Starsky caught his eyes and held them. “I’m on your side. The question is, are _you?_ ”

“Am I— What the hell do you think it is I’m doing?” Hutch sputtered. “I started playing for the wrong team and now I sold my soul to the devil, is that it?”

“You tell me.”

“Oh, I’ve got a lot of things to tell you, _buddy_ ,” Hutch jabbed a finger at him, furious. “Like where you can shove your fake concern and bullshit accusations. If this is your idea of having your partner’s back, I’d rather be enemies. At least then I’d see it coming! It really gives you something to think about, you know, _pal_ , when a mob boss treats you better than the people who are supposed to be your friends. Like who your friends _really_ are.”

Starsky’s hand shot out, grabbing Hutch by the front of his shirt and reeling him in. “Are you _hearing_ yourself?” He wanted to shake him until his sense snapped back into place.

“You’d better believe it,” Hutch spat, in his face.

Starsky’s grip loosened as the reality of this sank in. “You’re loosing all perspective,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Actually,” Hutch said, with sudden frostiness, “I think I’m _gaining_ some.” He shoved Starsky’s grip off his shirt. “I guess I’ll see you at the bust. Try not to shoot me in the back.” He stepped out of their corner, tense movements carrying him until he disappeared into the crowd of jerking bodies under flashing lights.

 

* * *

 

Everyone was in position, waiting for the signal. The warehouse was surrounded, all possible exits covered.

Starsky was with Jacobson, Hunt, and two other FBI men by the smallest, east entrance. The FBI had made it clear that his help was not needed, but he had made it clear that he would not budge, and in the end, Jacobson had lost that battle of wills. So here he was. Ready to bust in in five… four…

“Teams one and two, now!” Jacobson barked into his radio, and the five of them burst through the door, guns drawn, into the delivery drop-off area behind it.

It was darker inside, and Starsky could just make out haphazardly stacked wooden crates all over the large room. On the other side of them was the doorway to the main storage, where Bossick and Barcelli’s men would be surprised in just a few minutes, when—

“Gun!” Hunt shouted, and before they could react, glinting steel barrels appeared behind crates all along the right side of the room.

The five of them held very still.

“Whaddaya know,” a man’s voice said, “the boss was right. They were trying to sneak up on us.” Someone stepped into view behind the least tall of the crates, and Starsky recognized him as one of Bossick’s regular goons. “Now you listen to me—“

Without warning, a massive crate toppled down from somewhere above them and crashed into the floor between them, splintering in every direction.

Starsky dove behind one of the smaller crates to his left, and felt more than saw the others do the same just before the bullets started flying. Wood splintered again, much too close to Starsky’s head, and he fired back, around the side of his crate, buying himself the time to lurch behind a larger, deeper crate stack that looked more likely to withstand a round of gunfire.

Jacobson appeared next to him, then Hunt. The other two feds had found cover behind a second pile of crates, and were firing back with all they had. Jacobson, Hunt, and Starsky joined the effort.

A few seconds later, shouting erupted from the man hall, followed by shots. A lot more shots than there should have been, if things had been going according to plan.

Jacobson slumped with his back to the bottom-most crate as he reloaded. “They were warned,” he gasped out. “How the hell—“ He caught sight of Hunt, who was looking at Starsky.

Starsky felt numb. It couldn’t be. No this.

But it was. This was an ambush. Set up by Bossick, which meant Bossick had known… he felt dizzy. He felt sick.

“You _warned Hutchinson_?” Jacobson hissed, almost beside himself. “Were you actually _trying_ to get us all killed?”

“I was trying to keep my _partner_ from getting killed!” Starsky hissed back.

“Well, congratulations, now you’re only killing everyone else instead! Did you ever think that maybe you weren’t the only one with moral decency around? That maybe I was trying to keep Hutchinson alive, too? Dammit, I told you, I _told you_ that the smallest leak would be fatal!”

“Well, maybe if you’d kept us in the loop instead of always in the dark, we could have trusted your judgement on that,” Starsky growled.

“This is _why_ you were in the dark!” Jacobson snapped. “The two of you, you look out only for each other, you _trust_ only each other. You won’t listen to anyone else, and you’ll blow any op sky-high if you don’t think it agrees with your priorities. We needed Hutchinson as an undercover man, but you bet your ass we weren’t going to let either of you near any essential information!”

He twisted around and up and emptied a couple of rounds through a gap between the topmost crates, then dropped back down, into Starsky’s face. “If one of my men gets killed because of this, because you just had to go and follow your precious gut instead of—“ He broke off, staring at Starsky’s face. “How long have you known Hutchinson was compromised?” he whispered.

A volley of shots hit a crate behind them, saving Starsky from having to think about that as they all flattened themselves to the ground. Shit! Where…?

Starsky peered around the side of their crate stack, scanning the other side. There! A flash of movement behind a third-story crate. One of Bossick’s had apparently climbed up. Damn! At that angle, their crates weren’t nearly as good a cover. He motioned for Jacobson and Hunt to press as close to them as possible, without waiting to see if they did.

There was another movement and a glint of steel, and Starsky suppressed a curse. The climber was moving even higher. Slowly, trying to stay unnoticed in the shadows on the ground, Starsky slid his gun out beside the crate. He didn’t have a clear line on the guy, but he had to try. If he got high enough to aim past their crates… He raised his gun and—

A shot rang out from somewhere in the dark and the man toppled backwards and hit the ground with a muffled thud and a yelp that sounded like he’d landed on someone else.

The clang of running footsteps on metal echoed through the room, and jerking his head up, Starsky saw a dark figure dashing across a catwalk that circled the room just below ceiling height. Bossick’s men were yelling, turning around and out from their cover to fire at the figure, and before Starsky had even managed to get to his feet, he saw Jacobson and two others rushing across the room towards the goons.

Starsky followed more slowly, covering their backs and watching for any more unexpected attacks. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hunt doing the same. They reached the large row of crates at the same time, and Starsky took the right while Hunt went around left, guns out.

There was no need for their caution. Jacobson and the other two feds had four of Bossick’s goons on the floor in cuffs already, and had disarmed a fifth. Two more were sprawled out on the ground in front of Starsky. He checked their pulses. The one who’d been shot was dead. The other one was just unconscious. Starsky cuffed him.

Jacobson motioned him over, and sent Hunt to take over with the injured man. The other two joined them, and they took stock of their situation. The fighting and shouting in the main hall hadn’t stopped. There was nothing for it.

Jacobson signaled for Hunt to stay behind and guard the handcuffed goons. The rest of them moved quietly towards the door into the main part of the warehouse. At Jacobson’s nod, they burst through, weapons out.

There wasn’t anybody else in sight. Instead, they found themselves at one end of several long rows of crates, roughly stacked to leave five narrow aisles in between them. It was too dark to see more than twenty feet into them. The fight sounds were coming from what sounded like the other end of the hall, but it was impossible to tell from which side. And the crates were piled too high to see over them. Not good.

Jacobson directed his men to take the two alleys on the right, and reserved the left one for himself with an imperious wave of his hand. That left Starsky the center one. The one furthest from any of the exits, where the confrontations were bound to be. The one where he could do the least damage. And also the least good.

But he wasn’t in any position to argue. He headed in, moving carefully in the dusky light.

He didn’t know how any of them would get out of this. He didn’t know what Bossick was trying to do. Why set up an ambush, and not just let the FBI raid an empty warehouse? Or even set up Barcelli’s gang for the bust and then move in on their territory? Was he trying to prove he was invulnerable? The man who managed to fight his way out of a federal bust, instead of fleeing? Or was it the horse talking?

And Hutch. What the hell had Hutch done? What had he told Bossick? Just how much had he sold them out?

Part of him – most of him – couldn’t believe he was asking that question. Had to ask that question. He shoved that part aside.

Whatever had happened, there was no way Hutch would put his life in danger. There was no way he’d let Starsky walk into an ambush like this. That, he was sure of.

But Hutch hadn’t know for sure that Starsky would be part of the bust, had he? It was an FBI op, and the FBI had tried their damndest to keep Starsky out.

Still, Hutch wouldn’t help plan a massacre. Never, no matter how out of it he might be. But all that meant was that Bossick could have taken Hutch’s information and made his own plans.

Just how much information would Hutch have passed along? Well, that depended, didn’t it. Was he strung out? High? Brainwashed? In love?

He would have wanted Bossick to get away, if that was it. So, information on when and where the bust was going down. How many feds? Probably, if only to show how serious it was. How the FBI strategized in cases like this? Bossick might well have already known that. It wasn’t his first raid, and Hutch wasn’t his first informant.

The only ace they had left, then, was them, Jacobson’s team. Bossick and his men would have expected anyone coming in that way to be taken care of. And they would have been, except for the luck with the falling crate, and the rogue shooter.

Who had that been? One of Barcelli’s snipers? Doing what? Helping the feds take out Bossick’s organization? But how did that fit with the ambush? How much did Barcelli’s gang know, anyway? Had Bossick warned them, gotten them in on his plan? Or kept them in the dark, to be sacrificed for his great escape?

Starsky kept moving carefully along the aisle, staying to one side, ready to duck, his gun in his hand. From the sound of it, he was getting closer to the action.

Could the shooter have been Hutch? Part of him was almost convinced of it. But that would have meant that Hutch had known about the ambush. Had known, and hadn’t warned them, hadn’t interfered except just enough to protect Starsky.

 _Dammit, Jacobson!_ That wasn’t how they worked. That wasn’t how they had ever worked. They relied on each other, trusted in _me and thee_ when they couldn’t trust anyone else, but they didn’t put themselves before other people’s lives. They went into danger, together, to protect others.

Except… this whole case had been one big ‘except.’ Everything he’d always know was being ripped away.

Quick footsteps from somewhere ahead tore him out of his thoughts, and then someone was running. Towards him? In his aisle, or one over? His, it sounded like.

Starsky pressed himself into the gap between two tall crates, fitting just far back enough to blend into the shadows. Yes, the footsteps were near, and coming closer, someone in a panicked run. One pair of legs only, with no one chasing.

He risked it. He stuck his leg out from between the crates just as the runner reached him, felt a painful kick, and then the man was sent sprawling to the floor. He had a gun. He wasn’t a fed.

Starsky darted forward and kicked the gun out of his hand, letting it skid across the floor a few feet away. The goon made a grab for it, too late, met Starsky’s legs, and threw himself at them instead. Starsky toppled forwards, landed hard on the concrete floor, and felt arms grab him around the middle. He tried to twist, but the grip was strong.

Suddenly, several shots rang out not far away, together with a swell of incoherent shouting. Starsky used the half-second of surprise to kick behind him, just where… Yes, he’d hit the guy in the groin. The goon curled in on himself, moaning, and Starsky made quick work of flipping him around and cuffing him, grimly grateful Jacobson had insisted everyone carry more than one pairs of cuffs.

He pushed himself up, wincing at his definitely bruised knees, and went over to pick up the goon’s gun. There had to be a cross aisle here somewhere, and he needed to get to where the fighting was, quickly. But secure the weapon first. Be bent down and—

A blinding pain exploded through his head. He couldn’t see, hear, think. The sharp pain in his knees said he was back on the ground.

The gun. He had to get the gun. Had to not let go of his own.

A kick knocked him to the side, and another, but this time he caught the leg, threw his weight at it, and a body hit the ground next to him. Gun. Couldn’t let him get the gun. Starsky grabbed the man, somewhere. Shoulders? Smooth material. A good suit. A fed? No, no gun. Couldn’t let him get the gun.

He pushed himself up. The ground was moving, and everything was very loud. The suit moved up, too. He grabbed on, held on, had to—

Pain slammed into his face – a punch? – and he hit the ground. There was a crack, then agony seared through his arm, and the world went dark for a moment.

When he blinked it back into focus, he was down, on the floor, on his back, with hot iron pokers in his head and his arm. And Joey Bossick was standing over him, holding a gun.

“I’ll make it quick,” Bossick said, and raised it.

Time slowed down between two heartbeats. His finger bent on the trigger.

A shot exploded out from— Then another one. Loud. The same.

Starsky wasn’t hit. He wasn’t hit.

Bossick’s form dropped to the ground and didn’t move.

Starsky breathed, blinked, forced his eyes to focus past the body.

Hutch. Thirty feet away, right behind where Bossick had stood. Gun still aimed at the now empty space, shaking, staring at Bossick’s crumpled shape.

From close by, there was a shout, then another, and another. “FBI! Hands in the air.”

There were no more gunshots.

The world tilted and went black.

 

* * *

 

The next hours were a blur of pain and feds and hospital staff.

Starsky’s arm was set in a cast.

Jacobson asked him questions.

A nurse asked him questions.

A doctor told him something. Hutch answered.

Jacobson came back, or maybe he was still there. Hutch sent him away.

Hutch was fine, except for a few bruises and a very black eye. Hutch was okay.

The girls were okay, too. Frightened, but not hurt. The feds were taking care of them.

A couple of Bossick’s men were missing. Maybe some of Barcelli’s gang, too. Starsky was having trouble remembering things.

He was sent home. Hutch drove them.

 

* * *

 

Hutch was sleeping. Starsky felt like he could have used a couple of days’ worth of sleep himself, but he had a concussion and strict doctors’ orders, so he’d left his bed to Hutch and stared blankly at a newspaper until he’d managed to shift his brain into a slightly higher gear. There were a lot of things he needed to figure out. _They_ needed to figure out.

They’d been lucky. They’d been incredibly lucky. No cops or feds had died. Three FBI guys were still in the hospital, but they were going to make it, no question. It was pure luck.

This whole thing had been a mess from start to finish. It wasn’t one big mistake, it was lots of little ones that added up to an almost-catastrophe. Things that had made sense at the time. Wrong decisions. And it was almost impossible to pick out individual ones because they were just too many, and they were just too connected. He shouldn’t have… Hutch shouldn’t have… Jacobson shouldn’t have… no one should have… It didn’t matter. They were all still alive. All they could do now was pick up and clean up.

The telephone rang. Starsky picked up, and then listened. He ended up listening for a good while.

After putting the receiver down, he headed for the kitchen, and pulled two cans of soup from the cupboard. He had to snort at the label: chicken. Well, he supposed they could do with it. Opening the cans was a bit complicated, but stirring and ladling worked well enough with one arm in a sling. Fifteen minutes later, he had a tray set with two bowls of hot chicken soup.

He found Hutch lying on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Setting the tray down turned out to be tricky, and Hutch sat up to help him. Starsky pushed a bowl and a spoon at him.

“Hunt called,” he said, sitting down.

Hutch looked up.

“He said Bossick’s men were expecting a double-cross from Barcelli, not the FBI. They had no idea about the bust. Even Jacobson doesn’t think there was a leak anymore.”

“It was a last-minute change of plans,” Hutch said quietly. “I didn’t have time to warn you.”

“I know.”

“I did what I could.”

“I know.” Hutch had been the one up on the catwalk.

“You know _now_.”

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed. It wasn’t quite an apology. He hadn’t been right, but he hadn’t been wrong to worry.

That didn’t mean he hadn’t been wrong at all. “I get it,” he said. “Why you…” _Didn’t tell me. Shoved it in my fave. Went looking somewhere else._

“Do you?”

Starsky shrugged. “Well enough.” As well as he could.

“And?”

“Whatever you need.” It was the most he could promise. It was the least he could promise.

“Right.”

“I mean it.” He caught Hutch’s gaze, and held it.

Hutch gazed back for a second, reading his face. Then he nodded, accepting.

They both breathed the slightly lighter air, and spent some attention on their soup bowls.

“Dobey says we have the week off,” Starsky reported. It wasn’t exactly a surprise.

“Good.” Hutch spooned the last of his soup.

“Feel like going fishing?”

“No,” Hutch said, and sighed. “Let’s do it.” He flashed Starsky half a smile.

Starsky returned it. “Good man.”

They finished, and Starsky took the bowls back to the kitchen, waving off Hutch’s offer to help. He rinsed and dried them as best he could manage.

When he went back, Hutch was sleeping, sprawled out on his back across the bed. He looked pale and worn out, and his black eye looked much worse closed, puffy and painful.

Starsky sat carefully on the edge of the bed and looked at his partner. He still didn’t know exactly what was going on with him. But whatever it was, they would figure it out. Hutch was here, safe, and Starsky wasn’t going to let anyone change that anytime soon.

Hutch’s eyes blinked open, and Starsky watched as the sleepy look faded and Hutch slowly focused on his face, half a question in his expression.

“You look like hell,” Starsky said.

“Thanks,” Hutch said drily.

It felt right. For the first time in a long time, something felt right. Felt good. Bracing himself with his good arm, he leaned down and pressed his lips to Hutch’s in a soft kiss. So did that.

Hutch peered at him as he pushed himself back up. “What was that for?”

Starsky shrugged. “I wanted to try it right.”

“And?” Hutch’s face was carefully blank.

Starsky sighed. “We’ve got a lot of stuff to work out. Let’s add that to the list.”

Hutch nodded, and looked up at the ceiling. He looked so tired, so past hopeless, so far away, and Starsky was gripped by the sudden need to touch, to hold on, to do anything he could to bridge that gap.

He slipped a finger into a free buttonhole on Hutch’s shirt and tugged lightly. “Hey.”

Hutch glanced down, then up at him, and Starsky held his gaze, smiled, and leaned down to kiss him properly.

They were both breathing heavier when they broke apart, and Starsky’s good arm was complaining loudly. He could see some color returning to Hutch’s cheeks.

“Feeling better?” Starsky grinned.

Hutch barked out a laugh and closed his eyes, then shifted sideways on the bed to let Starsky collapse down next to him.

Starsky flopped onto his back, and missed the connection almost immediately. He slid his cast-free arm hopefully towards Hutch, and Hutch took the hint right away.

They lay there like that for a while, soaking up the peaceful quiet. It felt good. It felt like he could lie here forever.

Until his hand was suddenly and without warning squeezed painfully hard. He yelped, and tried to yank it away. “Hey!”

Hutch held on. “You’re not allowed to fall asleep. You have a concussion.”

And a broken arm, and a lot of soul-searching and fixing to do. Starsky sighed He didn’t want to get up. “Yeah. Keep an eye on me?”

Hutch squeezed his fingers again, gently this time. “Always.”

   

**Author's Note:**

> I nicked a few plot elements for this story from the TV show _Against the Wall_. But they totally nicked them from S &H first! So I’m just restoring order. ;) The name ’Barcelli’ is a not-so-sly nod to the relevant episode. If by any chance you spotted that: Ooh, you've watched AtW! Isn’t it great? 
> 
> Also, as per the contest rules, there are five words from the Simon & Garfunkel song “Bridge over Troubled Water” somewhere in the story… Why not see if you can spot them? ;P


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